


Here's Looking At You

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men (Original Timeline Movies)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bucky Barnes Feels, Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Derogatory Language, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Seriously so many feels, nazi's getting punched
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 20:37:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10521384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "Are you a mutant too?”“I don't think so,” said Bucky. “Just fucked up.”“Those things aren't always mutually exclusive.”In which Logan sometimes specializes in bad ideas, and excels in bringing home strays.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have a lot of feels for them meeting and thinking they know each other but are never entirely sure. I also know they really, really like punching Nazi's.
> 
> Edited to warn: Antisemitic language from someone who get's what's coming to them.

The bar Logan chose was in a shitty part of town, squatting near an intersection just off the highway and an industrial park. Even the orange lights of the parking lot gleaming off the chrome of the bikes gathered there didn't really illuminate the bar. The windows were painted over black and the front door was open as classic rock played and two men in leather smoked cigarettes with a girl whose shorts were practically panties.

Normally Logan would have been riding himself but his bike was in the shop and he didn't want her connected to anything that might happen that night. Not that he was particularly looking for trouble, but he was in a bad mood and his bad moods liked to attract the wrong kind of attention. He wouldn't say no to swinging a few punches.

He parked the pickup truck he'd borrowed from the shop and puffed on his cigar. Out of the darkness of the industrial lot a man appeared with a backpack and a ball cap, his head down and hair long. He was moving fast like he didn't want to be seen and he ignored the looks the smokers gave him, disappearing inside.

_ Hope he's not so stupid he'd try to rob the joint,  _ Logan thought as he got out of the car and swung the rusty door shut.

The inside of the bar was smokey, obviously not in accordance to most state laws, and humid. Pool balls clacked, men laughed, and the entire place smelled like beer and liquor and sweat. The crowd was primarily bikers wearing their leathers.

Except the man in the ball cap. He was now up at the bar, sliding onto a stool, his backpack between his legs and head still down as he waited for the bartender to come over.

Logan walked up, thinking he'd hustle some boys at pool, and got his own seat. He wasn't about to wait, though. “Miller and a shot of bourbon,” he said, pulling a half full ashtray over to him.

He focused on the TV screen. More news about what the world was calling a terrorist attack in Washington. Try as they might cover it up, the fact that all of Hydra and SHIELD's dirty secrets hit the Internet wasn't something they could brush aside and forget.

“ Пиво, пожалуйста,” said the man next to him.

Logan raised an eyebrow, turning to look at the man. In the bad light he could see he was in need of a shave with gaunt cheeks, his hair a little greasy. He smelled like a man fresh from work but not obnoxious, and there was another odd scent about him. The strong smell of metal. Even so he had an attractive face, a familiar face, though Logan couldn't place it. It was almost like the face was one he should remember from  _ before, _ the grey time before Weapon X had fucked up his mind beyond repair.

The bartender answered back in Russian before handing Logan his drinks. The man behind the bar was dressed in denim and a plain black shirt and was very old, with red rimmed eyes behind thick lenses and brushed back white hair. He seemed to look at the man beside him with respect.

“Спасибо,” said the man, taking his drink from the bartender.

A door opened to a bathroom and air wafted over the bar. Logan sniffed the air again, noticing the smell of metal persisted. He also thought he smelled oil, but it wasn't motor oil.  _ Gun oil, _ he thought, wondering if the man was carrying. The man also smelled sort of sparky, like electricity, but Logan couldn't identify it.

“Hey comrade, hurry it with the beer, we've gone dry,” said a heavy set man leaning against the bar with a few of his friends behind him.

“Money first,” replied the bartender, turning to look at him. “Five for a beer.”

“Five? For watered down piss? You gotta be joking me,” he said, pulling out his wallet. “Let people like you old heeb's in and you start Jewing every one of us hard working Americans.”

Logan watched the bartender turn red but meekly continue to take the caps off of bottles of Budweiser. He felt his lips press into a hard line as he tapped ash into the tray.

“You know you could mind your manners, bub,” said Logan, his voice raising just high enough to carry along with a tone chosen to irritate.

The biker took the hint, puffing out his chest and leaning in. “What the fuck did you just say?”

Logan took a proper look at him over his shoulder, keeping his face neutral. The man was in his late twenties at most with his blonde hair tied back and his arms covered in tattoos. He looked strong enough, Logan supposed.

“I said mind your manners,” he repeated. “You're drinking in his bar.”

The biker laughed, turning to look at his buddies with a little hand motion that clearly read 'get a load of this guy.' Logan liked that look. It meant someone was about to get into his personal space and was going to learn a lesson. “You gonna lecture us, old man?” the biker demanded, opening his vest enough so Logan wouldn't miss that he was carrying.

“Only if you make me,” he replied, putting his cigar in his mouth again.

They laughed and Logan ignored them, looking back up at the TV. Captain America, who'd been a fugitive on suspected terrorist activities, was back with the Avengers and being hailed a hero. From what Logan could remember of the second world war he'd liked the man. The memories were vague but there was nothing bad about them.

“Hey man, you think you can disrespect me and then just ignore me?”

Logan refused to look over and instead addressed the bartender. “Hey, can you turn that TV up?”

“You can watch that treasonous cuck any fucking time. We're talking here, asshole.”

Logan was about to offer to to put a boot up his ass when the demure Russian turned in his stool and stood, walking up and alongside Logan so he could get closer. His eyes were bright blue, and full of anger now.

“You know when I was younger, manners were considered important. We didn't go into someone's place and disrespect them.” His voice was unaccented and American and deceptively mild. “There was a war against Nazi's like you, saving people like Sergei. We won.  _ He  _ won,” he finished, with a nod of his head to the TV.

Something about the way he spoke, the tone of his voice, struck a chord with Logan. He  _ knew  _ this guy.  _ But where? _

“Fuck you too man,” said the biker, pulling his piece out a little more and giving him the finger with his spare hand. “We weren't even talking to your heeb-kissing ass, but since you're on the subject of ancient history, fuck Steve Rogers, Heil Hitler and-”

And what never came, because the man – who, Logan noticed now, was hiding a lot of bulk under that jacket – delivered the meanest left hook he'd ever seen. There was an audible crunch of bones as his gloved fist found its mark on the punk's face.

“Hand slipped,” he said, staring them down as the sound of voices went quiet and there was nothing more than the music. “Sorry about that.”

“You fucking piece of shit, you broke my nose!”

Well, Logan wasn't about to let the guy fight alone as the rest of those gathered in the bar started looking menacing. With a grunt he finished his beer. “Looks like my quiet night is over.”

He glanced at the bartender - Logan supposed he was the Sergei the man mentioned - who shrugged. “I have insurance.”

The man didn't seem to be expecting help. He gave Logan a searching look, almost as if he was trying to recall something about Logan that he couldn't quite remember, before turning his attention back to the crowd.

“Here I thought I'd have a quiet night.”

“I kind of figured I wouldn't,” said Logan. “But I'm always up for hitting assholes that deserve it. I got your back.”

“Awh, it's like you want to sweep me off my feet,” the man joked, a grin on his face as his fists came up.

Whomever the mouthy biker was, he had friends. A lot of them. And maybe some of the other patrons just didn't like the way Logan and the mystery man decided to stir the pot. In the end it didn't matter, really.  _ Nothing like a good old punch up to brighten a night. _

They fought more or less back to back, with Logan struggling to keep his claws behind his skin. They were pressing against the tissue though, those sharp and ever present points threatening to rip forward to change the game. He snarled as he deflected blows with his arms, stood up against the smash of a chair against his side. Blood trickled down his cheek but the cut was already healing.

The man it seemed fought just as hard. He carried himself strangely, as if he had a heavy weight attached to his left side, but his punches – especially the left – were devastating. His hand went through a table top and it looked like he didn't even feel it.

It was cathartic, getting lost in the haze of the fight. Logan felt less like himself and more like the Wolverine. The animal was getting the best of him as he growled, tossing someone full over a pool table, taking a pool cue from another and snapping it with an easy flex of his hands.

He heard someone roar in anger and he turned to see the biker swinging some piece of metal – Logan wasn't sure what, or where he got it – at the man's head. The man lifted his arm to block but Logan knew he was going to have his arm shattered if it hit. Before he could pull his claws out to destroy it though it connected with a metal on metal thunk that seemed to reverberate up the rod. Unfazed the man grabbed the bar. Logan could hear the sound of gears turning before he yanked the bar from the other man's hand and dropped it, a hand print clearly crushed into it.

_ Who or what the hell is this guy? _

Whoever or whatever he was, there was murder in his eyes. Logan knew someone was probably going to get something worse than a concussion. All thoughts of consequences were on the back burner, though, when something instinctive burst out of him.

“Bucky! That's enough! Stand down!”

The man stopped as if he was shocked, his body still tense like a coiled muscle, but he didn't go for the strike.

_ Bucky? Who the hell is Bucky? _ Thought Logan, staring at the man's back as the bikers, the ones who hadn't run for it yet, finally decided that the pain wasn't worth getting the right to be an asshole.

The man turned to stare at him. There was a lot of fury barely held back, a darkness that went deep. Logan knew the look. He wore it himself plenty. But there was also fear.

“Did he send you?” the man's lips barely moved. He was like an animal ready to run.

“No one sent me, kid. But the cops are going to send us for a ride if we don't get the hell out of here. C'mon.”

The man didn't move.

“Bucky, c'mon,” he said, and it seemed to eat away at the last of the man's resistance. He followed Logan back to the bar and picked up his things, putting cash down on the table.

“For you, Sergeant Barnes, I don't need money,” said Sergei.

“Everyone need's money,” the man replied.

_ Sergeant Barnes... _

“Shit,” said Logan, as the name clicked in his head.

“Use the back,” said Sergei. “I'll call the police once you're gone.”

Logan followed behind Bucky, staring at his back. He had no decent memories of Barnes, just that he was a quiet man. He smiled and laughed but he hadn't been happy. It had been more like he had been hiding a secret, one that hurt him.

Before Bucky could disappear into the dark Logan spoke up again. “I've got a good place to crash and I don't ask questions.”

Bucky stared at him suspiciously.

“One old war vet to another,” said Logan. “I don't remember much of it, but I get the feeling you and I are kind of alike.”

“You aren't calling him?”

“Kid, I don't even know who 'him' is. And if you mean that Rogers fella, I try to have as little as possible to do with groups who are trying to save the world. You want to hide and I respect that.”

Bucky seemed to consider it. “Alright then. I do have... questions.”

“I'll answer what I can.”

Mollified, Bucky followed Logan to the truck. He didn't say anything as he got in, his eyes straight out the windshield, but Logan still had the impression that he was being observed. If that was Bucky Barnes there was something dangerous about him. It made him think of all the fallout from the attacks in DC a few months before, and the rumours that had been flying in a flurry around it. Logan had been meaning to ask Natalia about a few of them, but he hadn't called her yet.  _ Maybe I should have. _

Logan's place wasn't nice, but it was more or less private. His apartment was over an injury lawyer's office and was little more than a bachelor's pad, something he was renting by the week and ready to drop whenever he needed to move on. He didn't really think about how the only real sleeping surface was his queen bed but Logan hadn't considered much in the way of arrangements.

He shrugged out of his leather jacket and tossed it over the tiny Formica table as he walked to the bar fridge. He pulled out the six pack of Keith's and glanced at Bucky, who was studying the place. Maybe deciding his exit strategy if he needed it.

“If you want a shower go ahead,” he said, kicking off his shoes before sprawling on the bed, back against the headboard. “I can wait with the beers.”

Bucky glanced at him then at the open washroom door. After a moment's consideration he went inside and the door locked. Logan flicked off the cap to his beer, turned on the TV and waited.

An old movie from the forties was playing but Logan didn't pay much attention, staring at it but not really watching. His mind was on whomever was in the bathroom, listening for sounds other than the running of water and the splash of it on a body or against the tub. He tried to focus on what he could remember of the Howling Commandos. He was sure if Charles was there he'd be insisting on meditation but Logan didn't go for that New Age stuff.

_ Sergeant Barnes... Bucky...  _ The name Bucky caused more of a memory than the rest. The look in his eyes as he watched other people, like they had something he didn't. He looked sad whenever Rogers's back was turned. Logan had a moment remembering sharing a cigarette with him in the remains of a building.  _ We'd played cards on a mission... _

Logan closed his eyes, wondering how much more there had been. There was heat in the memory, one that caused a tingling, pooling warmth at the base of his spine.  _ Stupid kid went and got wet and he couldn't get warm. Shivering. Fingers were ice, spread on my stomach... _

The door opened and broke his chain of thought, the memory disappearing like every other one inevitably did. Logan looked over, taking a sip of his beer. Bucky had wet hair but it was brushed back, pulled into a ponytail. He wore a henley that didn't seem to fit quite right, stretched over his chest and shoulders. He was still wearing a leather glove on his left hand.

“Beer?” he asked, ignoring the way he noticed again how Bucky was a good looking man. His fighting style was the sort of thing that would have Logan looking for more than a friendly drink.

Bucky glanced down at the six pack before he nodded and walked forward, standing awkwardly at the side of the bed as he picked one up and popped the lid off with his thumb. Logan noticed he still walked as if something heavy was weighing him down.

“Sit. Ask me whatever the fuck you were going to ask me,” said Logan, moving his foot to make a bit of room.

Bucky took the opening, perching at the end of the bed. He didn't seem at all relaxed, and despite his bulk he was slouching to make himself look smaller. “Do you know me?”

“I might,” said Logan. “I don't have a good memory.”

“How old are you?”

“Don't know that either,” he said. “Old enough to drink. Are you a mutant too?”

“I don't think so,” said Bucky. “Just fucked up.”

“Those things aren't always mutually exclusive.”

Bucky laughed a bit. It was a nice sound, if a little bitter. “So did I find someone like me? Too old to look like you do and can't remember anything?”

“You did,” said Logan. “What can you tell me? Is Bucky what you go by?”

“I don't go by anything.”

“The bartender called you sergeant.”

“It's how he remembers me. But I don't remember ever meeting him.”

“I know the feeling.”

They both drank in silence a moment, Logan watching him curiously. He couldn't remember much of his history but he did remember that Bucky Barnes had died, even if he couldn't remember the specifics. Yet there was the man in front of him.

“You got a healing factor?” he asked, using the words Jean and Charles liked to bandy about.

“You mean can I heal quicker? I guess. Faster than most people. Still bruise, though. And I'm not immortal.”

“You came back from the dead.”

“I never died.” The way he said it, though, made Logan wonder if Bucky wished he had.

He didn't really know what to say to that.

“I should go,” said Bucky, standing up. “Thanks for the ride and a shower.”

“Fuck it. Stay. Stupid way to end a first date that started out so well.”

Bucky cracked a smile at that. Even if it was bitter it was familiar. “Well, I don't want to ruin a good date.”

“Then sit up here and get comfortable. No need to fuck off yet.”

He figured Bucky was going to go back to hunching on the end of the bed but instead he sat down next to Logan, stretching his legs out in an almost hesitant motion, as if the idea of relaxing like this was foreign to him.

“What movie is this?”

“Casablanca, I think,” he said, watching Humphrey Bogart.

They watched in silence, working through the six pack. Logan had forgotten how long the movie was, but he didn't mind. Sitting there with Bucky reminded him of the few times he'd had to go after Rogue when she left the mansion and they'd hid out until she felt well enough to go back. She'd made him sit through all of the Lord of the Rings movies once, insisting on their cultural importance.

Logan was willing to bet that if Ororo or Jean saw him here with Bucky they'd say it was typical of him, 'picking up stray kittens.' Not that Bucky was a kitten. He was more of an unpredictable dog with a bad bite.

“ _ Go ahead and shoot,” _ said Bucky in time with the movie, his voice changing, growing softer,  _ “you'll be doing me a favour.” _

“An old favourite of yours?”

“Steve dragged me to this. He loved films. He even got me to see cartoons. He loved Fantasia.” He paused. “I don't know how I  _ know _ that.”

Logan sort of envied him for having the memories. “I don't remember much before the seventies.”

Bucky took a pull at his beer, his eyes on the screen. “How come?”

“Someone took it from me.”

“Did you kill them for it?”

“As many of them as I could find.”

Bucky finished his beer and set it down, reaching for a new one. “Good.”

“Someone took yours too,” said Logan, looking over at him. “They messed with you.”

Bucky bared his teeth, hand squeezing around the bottle. It wasn't hostile, but it was a grimace. A gut reaction to a reminder. Logan noticed, up close, he had small scars on his temples.

“You could say that.”

“Your arm too?” When Bucky didn't reply Logan gently pressed on. “I know a few things about experimentation. What they did – is it why you haven't aged?”

He watched Bucky take a drink and then stare at the bottle before he laughed. The sound was angry and sarcastic. “I lied to him.”

“Who?”

“Steve. Not outright. I pretended. I didn't tell him, after he'd dragged my sorry fucking ass out of that Hydra camp, that I was all wrong. Everything felt wrong. Colours were too bright, my body felt weird, there was shit going on in my head that I couldn't understand but I didn't tell him because – because fuck, he was  _ there. _ In Europe! And he wasn't small anymore, he wasn't  _ my _ Steve, my best friend. He didn't leave me. And maybe he hadn't changed in his heart, but he'd changed otherwise. And I didn't want him to know I changed too. So I pretended it was okay. Even pretended every time the Commandos found a pub that I could get drunk. I couldn't tell him that the good things – the numbness, feeling good and light and like things might be okay one day – were gone.” He kept staring at the bottle, his left hand balled into a fist on his lap.  _ “I don't even know how I know this.” _

The movie played on, forgotten. Logan watched Bucky, ready to react in case something set him off. He wasn't sure what it could or would be, but he waited.

After a moment, though, Barnes held up his metal fist. “The allies made Steve into a weapon. And I was mad. And I started shooting and I never wanted to stop. Didn't realize that just because the allies were pointing me around too that I wasn't the exact same thing with a Hydra stamp somewhere in my head.”

“You ain't what they made you.”

“The fuck would you know?”

He blew out a breath. “I know about being made a weapon. And if you decide you ain't, you  _ ain't.” _

“Fuck off. I don't want a goddamn feel good, hug it out-”

Logan raised his hand and felt the points of his claws rip through his skin. The slide of the blades through his muscles stung through his forearm, made his knuckles burn as the bones expanded to let them past, his arm hurting just as much as every other time they came out. Bucky's reaction was sudden, twisting to bring his left hand up to fend off an attack.

It took a moment for Bucky to ease back into his former position, still staring at the claws. After a moment Logan relaxed his hand, felt them retract and trace their painful path back into his arm.

“If I'm a weapon it's only for myself,” said Logan. “You won't get any of that New Age 'let it go' shit from me. Same as you won't hear me say to move on. Whoever did whatever they did to you deserves death. Deserves you giving it to them in any way you choose. And if you ever need help give me a holler or whatever, I'll do what I can.”

Bucky smiled. He still looked tired. “Sweet talker.”

Logan snorted. “That's right, I'm a regular Casanova. Bring strangers to my bed, offer to kill people for them... they never stand a chance.”

“Works for me,” said Bucky.

He held his beer, watching Bucky's face. Logan didn't much go for poetry, but Bucky seemed to have eyes like oceans. Too much happening to see at once. He didn't fail to notice the way Bucky's eyes dropped to Logan's mouth and back up again in consideration.

He finished the bottle, holding it low and rubbing his thumb in circles on the rim. For a moment he was sure he already knew what those lips felt like, even if he couldn't be sure.

It was a bad idea, really. But bad ideas were Logan's style.

_ Fuck it. _

He leaned in and Bucky didn't move away. He paused only a moment, his nose brushing against Bucky's cheek, before he kissed him. He smelled soft and clean, and there was no mistaking the scent of need starting to grow. Bucky's lips, the way he moved, caused a burst of familiarity that set Logan buzzing almost as much as the way Bucky gasped and reached up to curl his fingers behind Logan's neck. Despite knowing something was off about the kid's arm they didn't feel hard or rough. They were soft, seeking.

He pressed Bucky down, waiting to feel if he said no, but Bucky didn't stop him. He just gasped as Logan's hand stroked his stomach, his entire body shivering under his simple touches almost as much as Logan would expect if he were really getting off.

He met his eyes. “Missed that?”

“Shut up,” said Bucky, bringing his face back down.

Logan wasn't a stranger to missing being touched. If he'd had any amount of patience – if Bucky would have let him have patience – he might have taken his time with it. Instead he stroked him again, this time curling his fingers to scrape his skin, feeling and loving the way Bucky's abdominal muscles tightened in response, the way he moaned. When he brought their hips together and he rocked into him he could feel that Bucky was just as hard as he was.

Bucky pulled on Logan's tank-top, peeling it over his head and tossing it aside. His hands splayed on Logan's stomach before he slid them down to work at his belt, one hand fumbling with the buckle as the other ran along the solid length of his cock.

“Fuck,” he swore, looking Bucky in the eyes.

The kid smirked, pulling the belt free with a tug.

“Mind if I take off your shirt too, or would you rather I not see?”

Bucky faltered a moment, his hands slowing, before he pulled his hands away and sat up to meet Logan in a kiss. He didn't resist as Logan pulled it up, didn't stop kissing until it was bunched beneath his chin, and even then he didn't stop until he'd dragged his teeth over Logan's lower lip.

Logan looked at him, trying to take in what he was seeing as Bucky laid back against the pillows, a nervous look in his eyes. Scar tissue massed at the place where his flesh met metal and Logan resisted touching it. He had a glimpse in his own mind of the lines drawn on his body before the scalpel found him, but he wasn't sure why. Other healed over wounds – bullet holes, probably, and knife cuts – were scattered around Bucky's torso.

He might heal, and he might not age, but...

Before Bucky had more reason to doubt this he leaned down again and kissed him. He let his fingers curl with Bucky's left hand as he settled his weight, and let Bucky squeeze and explore him as they kissed.

“You don't need to worry about hurting me,” said Logan, “I bounce back.”

Bucky's right hand squeezed on his shoulder, his blunt nails scraping the skin a moment.

“That's right. Do what you gotta.”

Bucky met his lips with a growl and a bite that made Logan feel the animal inside rear up in response, answering with a little snarl of his own.

The bed creaked, threatening to break as Bucky turned and shoved Logan down, straddling him. His left hand pinned Logan's wrist, the pressure tight and making Logan's fingertips tingle. His right scratched down Logan's abs before they popped the button to his jeans and he reached down.

“Fuck,” he groaned as Bucky's hands curled around his cock. He thrust his hips forward, aching to feel more. He wanted to turn Bucky over and fuck him, ached to get inside of him, even if it was sure it wasn't going to happen.

Bucky's teeth scraped his lip again before he shifted down, letting go of Logan's wrist so he could yank down his jeans and situate himself. Before Logan could say anything he leaned in and sucked him down. Listening to Bucky moan like he'd been starved of it was erotic as hell.

“God, kid,” Logan muttered, petting his hands through Bucky's long, damp hair. He tugged on his ponytail and felt Bucky shiver in response, watched as more of his dick disappeared past Bucky's full lips.

He was sure it wasn't going to take him long to blow, not with how desperately Bucky was sucking on him, not with the moans he was making.

“Fuck,” he swore, his fingers getting tight a moment. “Kid – Bucky.”

Bucky looked up, his eyes hooded, before he pulled off, his tongue out and drawing off with a single string of saliva.

“Christ, fuck,” he said again, resisting the urge to grab Bucky's face and thrust again past those perfect lips.

He turned him, trying not to growl as he yanked Bucky's pants down, determined to get every single layer out of the way, to feel his body properly. The second he could he spread Bucky's legs, squeezing at the man's thighs as he rocked his hips and slid his cock alongside Bucky's.

“I'd fuck you if I could,” said Logan, watching the way his cock – shorter, thicker – slid alongside Bucky's.

“I'd let you,” said Bucky, his voice practically cracking with need and a whine.

“Shit,” he swore, feeling his cock throb, watching a drop of precum roll from the tip of his dick. “Next time.”

He needed to get off, needed the motions. Wanted to watch Bucky's face as he came. Wanted to see it unguarded, sure that it would trigger something in his head, something he desperately wanted to see again. He took a partially used tube of slick from next to the bed and popped it with his thumb and squirted it into his palm. As much as he wanted to finger Bucky and feel his walls clench he had no patience.

Logan crushed his lips against Bucky's as he ran his slick palms over them, thrusting his hips again. It was slippery, better, but it was still rough, edging on painful as they grasped at each other. He fucked against Bucky in a rough pace, egged on with the way Bucky's legs tightened and his heels hooked behind Logan's thighs.

“Please,” moaned Bucky. “I need to-”

He reached between them, still thrusting, and sunk his teeth into Bucky's neck in a claiming bite as he jerked them together.

It seemed to be enough to send Bucky over the edge. He came with a broken cry, shooting between their stomachs, his legs and arms like a vise as he whined. The sound of need, the sight of his wet, almost teared up eyes finished Logan.

He held on tight, one hand in Bucky's hair, the other frozen around them as he throbbed, coming with another curse and spilling over his own fingers, on Bucky's cock.

They both didn't move for a moment. Both of them twitched when he let go, letting himself sink a little over Bucky's chest. He pressed his face against his throat, breathing in Bucky's scent.

“I know your type,” said Logan, after a moment. “And you'll disappear when I sleep. But don't. Stay. I've got your back.”

Bucky didn't reply right away, his breathing hushed like he was waiting for something.

“Just stay until morning. Fuck off then. Hell, I'll drive you out of the city if you want. Just stay.”

“...Alright,” was the soft reply, followed by a brush of lips against Logan's hair.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed. Should I add a part two?


End file.
